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Show 6-8 "All right, Andrew. I just don't want to make you sad." "You don't. Couldn't ever. Just keep coming. Tell your granny I liked the cookie. She doesn't have to know, does she?" I shook my head. We were building our own secrets, our own world that would keep out the mud and the burned trees and the empty church. I would fill his eyes with new pictures, and we would spend the summer drifting down the Amazon. We wouldn't talk again of France or what he couldn't remember. Surely there were palaces on the Amazon and all the other rivers of the world we would explore together. I stayed that day until Father came out to find me again, alerted by a call from Mother that I was at the hospital. The sun had drifted behind the hospital and we were covered in cool shadow. I talked to Andrew, told him about school, about Fidelio, about Mother and her music, about Emily and Darby. I showed him the cartwheel I had learned to do on the last day of school. And for the first time I heard him laugh a real laugh when I tried one cartwheel too many and tipped over on the grass like a floppy rag doll. Father heard him laugh, and came over to me to pick me up where I sprawled at Andrew's feet, my dress high above my knees. "Not much of a lady, is she Andrew?" "No, sir. Not a lady. But a fine little friend." I hugged Andrew before we left, wrapping my arms carefully around his neck, under his hat. He walked us up to the path and waved us on our way down the shadowed walk. |